


Turn Your Head

by MsIzzyBee



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Discussions of Homophobia, Hux has a slight breakdown, M/M, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsIzzyBee/pseuds/MsIzzyBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hux meets a stranger in the forest preserve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
He’s not going back to the forest. Ben isn’t real. He’s been working too much, sleeping too little. He’s already poured out all his booze. Watched half a bottle of bourbon swirl and chug noisily down the drain.

He’s not going back to the forest.

 

The first time Hux doesn‘t really see him at all. He’s walking along the trail, blessedly alone in the near twilight of a weekday when he sees a tall, dark figure moving alongside him out of the corner of his eye. He startles, snaps his head to where the figure should be. Only trees. Only forest. He would’ve heard or seen another hiker long before they would’ve gotten that close. He’s alone - of course.

It isn’t until he’s driving back home that a cold flush tightens his stomach as it hits him: what if it was an animal? Some slinking predator in the shadows? He bites his lip as he switches lanes - traffic is strangely congested at this hour. No, the largest thing in the preserve should be deer. There aren’t any bears, no wolves in the state anymore -- just deer, coyotes, etc. Nothing so large as to be an actual threat. Idiot, he thinks to himself, pulling into the parking lot of his apartment complex. He grits his teeth, runs a hand through orange hair gritted by gel. _How embarrassing, you’re afraid of nothing_.

He slams his car door harder than he needs to. Stomping up the stairs to the second floor he tries to remember which frozen dinners he has left.

 

The second time Hux is sure there‘s something there. A bright and cool Sunday morning, and he’s there a little after dawn. He allows himself to walk leisurely, almost lazily along the damp trail. His car was the only one in the parking lot when he left it. He has probably an hour before more people show up. He can take his time. He has time.

It’s why he’s slouched against the railings on a wooden bridge watching a deer about 50 feet away drink from the stream. A pretty, fat, brown thing. He wonders where the rest of her group is. He watches her for a few minutes before he realizes standing still is causing him to shiver. He straightens his back out, rolling his shoulders where they’ve begun to stiffen. He stretches his arms above his head, relishing in the pleasure-pain pull of his muscles when he sees it -- a dark shadow at the corner of his eye. He drops his arms and twists around - the bridge is empty.

His stomach drops. A loud, slow creak of the walkway behind chokes him. He snaps his head again - nothing there. He’s sweating instantly, grips his hands into fists ready to fight. _Fight what? A phantom deer? An old, rickety bridge that should’ve been torn down decades ago?_

He stands still, takes deep breaths to calm his hammering heart. The preserve is almost cacophonous with birds and insects chirpingsingingscreaming. He’s alone. He’s safe. He stands on the bridge for a few more minutes. There are no more creaks, no more dark shadows. He forces himself to walk slowly up the trail. If he walks briskly on the way back it’s because he wants to avoid running into people. It would spoil his morning.

By the time he reaches his car, still sitting lonely in the parking lot, he’s practically jogging. He fumbles with his keys, sweat pouring down his back and making his fingers slippery. He slams the door shut behind him and locks the door. He wants to start the car. He wants to sink into his seat until he disappears. The few tries it takes him to get the keys into the ignition are grueling; metal scraping dusty plastic impossibly loud in the stuffy car. He gets a speeding ticket on his way home; his first at 31 years old.

Later as he’s taking a shower he tells himself it’s because he’s stressed. Ever since they fired Mark and decided to not fill his position Hux has been doing what feels like twice the work. Mark’s accounts should’ve been spread evenly throughout the team; instead, he was given what seems like half of Mark’s shit on top of his already heavy work load. He’s drinking more coffee and working later and sleeping less. He presses a thumb to a bony hipbone, wondering if he’s lost weight. He turns his face to the hot spray of the water and thinks about how he’d like to just drown in it.

 

The following Friday he leaves work early. Meaning, he goes in at 7, works through lunch and leaves at 5. He grips his coffee thermos tight as he silently dares anyone to comment on his leaving. Nobody does, most have already left or leaving too.

Even though it’s a cool spring day, his shirt is sticking to the small of his back by the time he reaches his tan sedan in the parking garage. He should feel happy, relaxed or relieved that it’s the weekend. All he feels are tethers that tighten with every step from the building. He’s never going to be free. The weekend is an illusion.

Getting up and going to the preserve the next morning is more routine, more compulsion than desire. He puts on his faded jeans, his t-shirt, fleece, old tennis shoes and a baseball cap he would never be caught dead in anywhere but there. He doesn’t even turn on the light; the early morning sun making his small, beige bedroom manageable. He wouldn’t need light at all anyways, how many times has he done this?

He eats buttered toast over the kitchen counter, gulps down too hot coffee, and tries not to think as he shuts his apartment door behind him.

He never hiked as a kid - he never even hiked before he moved to the city. Most of their “family vacations” were week long trips to visit his mother’s parents. His grandmother died when he was 9, and after that they moved his grandfather to a retirement facility. He memories are hazy but there are pieces that stand out, sharp and jagged from the rest. A rambling, big plantation house in North Carolina. The heat in the daytime, the buzzing cicadas at dusk. His brother, only two years older but always so much bigger, telling him he had to hide first for hide and seek. Hux perching uncomfortably in a sticky apple tree for what felt like hours before he hopping down, finding his brother swinging on a tire swing, - not looking for him.

His hike that Saturday morning is uneventful. He comes across multiple people, gives them a tight smile, and carries on.

 

The first time he meets him is a Wednesday. Springtime is waning and it stays light longer, but the day had been cloudy and it’s too dark to be hiking anymore and Hux still has a mile back. He doesn’t have a flashlight, but it’s still light enough to see. The trees are muted and gray but the birds and bugs make so much noise he doesn’t feel afraid. He’s not paying enough attention - too focused on looking at the ground below to make sure he stays on the worn dirt path. It smells pungent still, old leaves decaying on new grass that’s trying to push itself through. He‘s making steady ground when he glances up and his heart leaps into his throat. There’s a man not five feet in front of him.

“Shit!” he sputters and shudders to a halt. He should keep walking, that’s what he would normally do. But this man isn’t a fellow hiker, he’s not passing Hux on the trail - he’s blocking him. Hux notices he doesn’t have shoes, just an off-white undershirt and dark pants. He can‘t be hiking like that.

“Hello?” He croaks out - still unable to move.

“It’s too late for you to be here.” The man says slowly, calmly, as if Hux is the one who’s out of place.

Hux fumbles for words, “I..didn’t realize it would get dark so quickly.“ The man keeps looking at him, and Hux realizes that he’s young. Younger than Hux, probably. Dark hair and eyes and a proud, long face that Hux can’t decide is attractive or unsettling. He takes a deep breath. “Do you need help as well?” He tries slowly. “Leaving here?” He’s sweating despite the springtime chill. _Careful, careful,_ he thinks.

The man cocks his head, “I live here” he replies, almost condescends. It sparks something in Hux.

“Well, I don’t think you’re supposed to” He retorts and immediately regrets it. Yes, irritate a large, probably unstable man in a dark and abandoned preserve. Brilliant.

The man’s face remains passive. “I’ll escort you out.” He says haltingly, as if the idea just came to him.

“Alright.” Hux says and carefully walks towards him.

The man keeps pace next to him the entire way; never in front or behind, but always beside. Hux feels impossibly loud next to him - his feet seem to thud on the path, his breath coming in awkward, disruptive bursts. The man next to him seems to almost float - silent and graceful.

When they come over the last small hill and the entrance comes into view Hux clears his throat and turns to address the man who he’s almost certain is squatting in the preserve.

The man is gone.

It takes Hux several seconds to process the empty space next to him. He quickly turns in circle, squinting in the dusk for a glimpse of him. He had to have slipped away when Hux was distracted, maybe hiding behind a tree in the twilight. Hux tries to discern the ever darkening shapes beyond the path, but he can‘t detect the stranger. Maybe his eyesight is worse than he though - and it’s getting darker, after all. He tries to listen for footsteps or snapping twigs. He tries to breathe quietly, slowly in order to hear better. He hears nothing, sees nothing.

Hux drives home on autopilot. He vaguely processes fumbling for his keys, hands awkward and stiff. Opening the door to his apartment feels like waking up. There is his kitchen, counters perfectly wiped down. There is his couch - tan, microfiber and only used on one side. He sits down. Hux knows it’s possible the man could’ve slipped away while he was distracted. He was nervous, worried - it’s possible he was so into his own thoughts the man had been gone long enough to pass undetected through the brush. He isn’t crazy. He didn’t hallucinate an oddly handsome young man condescending to him about his recreational choices. Everything is fine.

The following Saturday Hux hikes his normal weekend route without incident. There are no shadows, no noises, no strangers. The only thing he notices are pockets of odd silence in the preserve, like stepping into a bank from a busy street. That, and the warm brush of air every now and again against the nape of his neck -muggy and soft, like a breath.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Things at work take a nosedive when spring turns to summer. Another one of his co-workers leaves. _Can’t do it, can’t do all the overtime anymore. Not with a family_ , she had said. Hux wants to scream, comes dangerously close to crying because Unamo had been one of the competent ones. He congratulates her on her new position, better paying, only 40 hours a week, and tries to calculate how much of her workload his supervisor will pass onto him.

For the next two weeks he only makes it to the preserve on the weekends; by the time he gets home it’s usually 7:30 and he’s just so tired. He feels like a some mechanical toy soldier. He winds himself up every morning, dutiful does his job, and slowly shudders his way back home until he collapses.

It’s almost a month after the “Handsome Squatter” incident, as he refers to it in his head, that he sees him again. It’s barely after dawn on a Saturday morning and Hux is sitting in a secluded spot by the lake. He feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle

“You‘re here early.”

Hux flinches, a yelp caught in his throat. He twists to look behind him. There’s the squatter, arms crossed and leaning against a tree. “Hello.” Hux grits out, trying to calculate if he’s going to be accosted or just condescended to again. The squatter says nothing, just continues to stare at Hux from where he’s leaning. Hux notices he’s wearing the same thing as the last time -- a white undershirt and thin, dark pants. Still no shoes. He wracks his brain for what to say that won’t encourage the man to stay, but won’t offend him into action. “You, uh, like this spot then?” Hux uses his water bottle to point at the lake in front of them.

“Not particularly.” The man answers. “Not any more than any other spot here.” His lips twitch as he tilts his head. “You like it here, though. The lake.” The man continues.

“Uh, yeah. Yes.” Hux replies and realizes he hasn’t broken eye contact. He quickly turns to look at the lake in front of them. “It’s peaceful here.”  
He looks out at the wide, dark blue swath of water. It’s early enough that the fog is still clinging to the surface. The peace here is absolute only in broken pieces; a minute on a cool Sunday morning, a brief and damp Thursday twilight. He takes his peace where he can find it.  
Hux snaps his head back and finds the man still there, still leaning. _That’s right, won’t be so easy to sneak away this time_. Hux ducks his head and bites his lip to suppress a sneer. He remembers the log he’s sitting on is still damp in places.

“It rained last night.” Hux says, brushing a piece of imaginary lint from his shoulder. “That must be…inconvenient for you.”

“I don’t find the weather convenient one way or the other.”

“You have a tent, then?” Hux asks lightly.

“I don’t live in a tent.” He doesn’t sound offended, just factual. It irritates Hux.

“You told me you lived here, the last time I was here. Is that not the case?”

“I live here." The man insists, worrying his full bottom lip with big, bright teeth. He sounds uncertain.

Hux turns back to the lake to give the man the illusion of privacy, of acceptance. He scratches the moss off the log with a fingernail and tries to configure a plan of escape. No need to rile the man up, but Hux wants him gone. Why can’t he be left alone

The far off sound of voices coming up the trail turns him around. The squatter is gone, no trace of him left behind. He drags his nails down the log and hisses as he feels a pinch. He brings his reddened finger to his face. A splinter. Fantastic.

The following Saturday Hux drives to the preserve with renewed fervor. He’s not going to be cowed into staying away by some light-footed vagrant who has nothing better to do than sneak up on people. The preserve is public property; he’s a tax-paying citizen and he’s going to use it for its _intended purpose_ , unlike some.

The squatter finds him again by the lake. Hux has to reign in his ridiculous pride at remaining still when he appears in his periphery, silent as ever. It’s still awkward, even more so than the last time, as the man has decided to sit next to Hux on his favorite log. They sit in silence until he can’t stand it any longer.

“I’m Hux, by the way.” He sticks out his hand.

“Husk?” The man’s hand is cold in his grip.

“Hux. H-U-X. It’s my last name, technically.”

“Alright.” The squatter says slowly, smiling. “Are we on a surname-only basis?”

Hux feels a spike of panic at his smile, and, realizing they are still gripping hands, slowly loosens his fingers. “I don’t know.” He can feel himself begin to flush from his scalp to his chest. “Are you going to tell me your first or last name?”

“I’m -” the man pauses, opens his mouth only to close it. “I’m Ben.” he says finally, and turns back to look at the lake.

Hux does the same, hoping the awkward moment passes quickly. Ben can‘t be his real name, judging by how he stumbled over it; although, why would he lie? Hux sneaks a glance at Ben, careful not to move his head. Ben is his height, maybe a little taller, but he takes up so much more _room_ than Hux does. Ben sits back on the log, weight on his palms and his legs sprawled in front of him. Hux looks at Ben‘s pale, muscled arm that is connected to the large, long fingered hand that rests scant inches from Hux‘s own leg. Hux suddenly feels hot, face flushing all over again. What is he doing? What is he _doing?_

“I, um, should probably -” he points vaguely. “- get back to it, you know?” He stands up quickly, brushes imaginary dust from his pants, and smiles in Ben’s direction, unable to meet his eyes. He makes it about ten steps towards the trail again before he hazards a glance back, guilty and wanting. Ben is gone.

 

Hux thinks of Ben as he eats his dinner. Stabbing a piece of leftover sesame chicken made slightly rubbery by the microwave, he wonders how Ben eats. Ben doesn’t look like he’s starving. In fact, he looks healthy for the most part. And clean. Always clean, somehow. Do they have a laundromat hidden away in the preserve somewhere? He tries to think of how Ben navigates the logistics of food and clean clothes in the preserve as he chases fried rice around his bowl. He lets himself fantasize about how Ben bathes himself. He doesn’t let himself think about how Ben only appears when he’s alone.

 

He’s changing out of his work clothes when his phone buzzes. Only a few people would text him in the middle of the week after 7:30. Only a few people would text him at all.

_“R U alive?”_ It’s his mom. He slumps backwards onto his bed, pants still half buttoned.

“ _Yes. Sorry. Been busy at work_.” He types out. _“How are you?”_ He should get up and finish changing. Instead, he flops to his back and watches the dots indicating her typing.

_“Ok”_ Is the reply he waits 3 minutes for. If he were a better son he would call her more often. Maybe once a week. On Sunday afternoons, like real people did instead of random calls on his commute home or lunchtime texts with pictures of cats. Something more substantial, rather than the minimum maintenance required. _"U still coming Sat?”_

Shit. He had forgotten. She had mentioned something a few weeks ago with needing his help with something. Hanging a picture, moving a chair - something she could do herself but claimed she needed his help with. She was only 2 hours away, but he hadn’t seen her in 3 months.

_“Of course! Are you still off at 2?”_   With his brother and his family stationed at Fort Belvoir in Virginia, it was Hux’s responsibility to look after her. A responsibility he had let slip.

_“Yes. U be able to get dinner after?”_

_“Only if you buy.”_ He sends.

_“LOL.”_

 

 

“You look tired.” His mom sips her Michelob Ultra, pale eyebrows raised. “Everything alright at work?”

“Yep.” Hux takes a drink of his water, scanning the Applebee’s for their waitress. It’s definitely been too long since she brought them their drinks. Why did his mom ask for a few more minutes with the menu? She orders the same thing every time he brings her here. She sighs.

“Mitt -” she starts, and he can’t help but cringe, “- I know you don’t want to worry me.” She leans forward on the table, bottleneck rolling between her thick, hard fingers. “I just want to make you’re not --” she grimaces, rakes a few graying strays of hair from her face. “ - I don’t know, you don’t have any vices. Except working, I guess.”

“Everything’s fine, mom.” He looks into her eyes. Tries to. She wants to believe him but she doesn’t. “Just a little too much overtime for my old age.”

“Why don’t you quit? Or. Okay -” She brings her hands in mock surrender “-not just quit, obviously, Mr. Tightass. But look for something different? You have a degree, you can do anything!”

He takes another sip of his water and tries to summon the list of reasons he keeps in his head. He’s been there almost 2 years now; taking the first job he was offered as soon as he crossed the state line in an effort to outrun the shattering of his life. Because he doesn’t want to start all over. Because he doesn’t want to admit another failure.

“I need to make time to look.” He answers into his glass.

“Are you seeing anyone?” She asks suddenly and takes a swig of her beer.

“No.” He replies, surprised. His mom rarely asked that question. They’ve gotten to a point where they just usually ignore the fact that Hux is gay. In the 9 years he was with Brian she had only met him a handful of times. As a peacekeeping effort it had seemed to work. Not that she was openly rude or critical, but she was never interested. Like she was barely holding in her disappointment.

“Because, you know, if you were -” she gestures aimlessly with bottle, “- you could tell me.”

In his shock he almost, almost mentions Ben. Not as someone he’s seeing, but as a friend he’s made. He stops himself. Reminds himself that Ben isn’t his friend - that Ben exists in some nebulous world between Hux’s 11 hour work days and his weekends of brief reprieve.

After dinner in the parking lot of her apartment complex Hux hugs his mother tight. This visit had been mostly painless, a rare gift. Maybe things are looking up for him.

 

 

“My mother works at a diner.” Hux says, looking out over the water. “Runs it really. Manages it. She had started out as a waitress there when we moved after - after my dad passed.” They’re sitting by the lake again. Hux glances at his watch. It’s 7:45 on a Saturday night, and this will be the peak of action of his weekend -sitting on a log with Ben.

“I’m sorry.” Ben murmurs, half bent over, elbows resting on his knees. He’s been more quiet than usual today, and Hux has been filling the once welcome, now heavy silences with random, inane topics.

“Oh, what?”

“I’m sorry. About your dad.” Ben says slowly, clarifying.

“Oh.” Hux waves his hand awkwardly. “Not a big deal. He was an ass. It’s fine.” He looks back out at the lake.

 

“Fuck!” he hisses quietly. His fingers spasmed and he accidentally deleted a column in the spreadsheet he was working in. He quickly rights it, sighing as he stares at the numbers in front of him. He glances at his clock on his desktop toolbar. It’s 3:02 - two minutes since he last checked. It’s staying lighter longer now in the midst of summer. He thinks if he leaves a little early, maybe at 6:45, he could get to the lake before dark. He winces, guiltily calculating how much he could get done in those fifteen minutes. His stomach churns and growls almost embarrassingly loudly. He tightens the muscles there, willingly them to still. He still hasn’t eaten his turkey sandwich he brought for lunch. His productivity is higher than his co-workers, he’s sure of it. And, judging by the fact that he’s always the last to leave, he’s working more overtime than them too. First Order Financial can spare him the fifteen minutes.

By 7:30 that night he’s at the preserve, walking along his normal path. It’s been almost two months since he was here on a weekday. These past few weekends he’s been rerouting and ending up at the lake more and more. Ben has been finding him there with increasing regularity. Hux thought, at first, that Ben might be camped near there -but the area is far too public for that to be true. A small portion of the lake even borders the main road coming into the preserve, and Hux can’t think that Ben would risk settling in such a popular area. He bites his lip as he comes upon the crossroads of the trail - on the left is his normal route; the right is the path to the lake. He glances up towards the sky, the thick foliage of the trees making it difficult to see. It’s still early enough that he could technically finish his regular route and still end up at the lake at twilight, or before.

He takes a step to the left but falters, the droning of the cicadas making it difficult to concentrate. He could finish his route, but - he turns to the right and slowly starts towards the lake. He isn’t changing his routine because of Ben. He is simply curious as to how the man is faring in this abominably wet, oppressive heat they’ve had.

His regular spot by the lake is hidden from the trail due to the high grasses and the sharp downward slope it takes to reach it, but Hux can still hear voices as he walks closer. He pauses, not wanting to interrupt anyone else’s reverie, and realizing that Ben wouldn’t approach him if there were people around.

_Wouldn’t he?_ Hux glances around, the Midwestern woods looking far more deep and sinister in the twilight. How does he know Ben wouldn’t approach him if other people were around? He can only go on previous experiences. He’s never seen Ben when the trail is busier, or when there are others near their log on the shore. Ben’s presence had at first been frightening, then annoying, and now something bordering on friendly. That Ben trusted him had made him feel singular, almost - _do you really think you’re the only one he’s singled out? That you’re special?_ He jerks his head, trying to dislodge the sneering inner voice.

He abruptly turns around and heads back toward the entrance. There are other places along the shore, but Hux’s spot had been perfect - any farther and you head towards the road, and any closer you head towards the main trail on the opposite shoreline. It’s getting late; he might as well head back anyways. Determined as he is, he can’t keep himself from scanning the trees as he walks back - his heart pounding at the thought of sighting a dark head or a pale arm.

As he gets into his car, alone in the parking lot save for a few other stragglers, he struggles not to look around one last time. He jams his key into the ignition, turning it hard and exhaling. Ben isn’t his friend. Ben is a vagrant who has approached Hux only because he’s either A. lonely or, much more likely, B. wants something from him. He grips the steering wheel hard, clenching his jaw as he hurriedly makes a turn toward the main road.

He’s so stupid. He’s so _stupid_. Did he really cut out of work early to visit a transient currently squatting in the local preserve? The overtime is clouding his brain. He brings his car to a halt at a lonely stoplight on the edges of the city; the solitary traveler at this particular junction. _Maybe you just need to get laid, old man_. He scoffs at the thought, then relents, then pushes the gas a little viciously when the light changes.

He hasn’t been with anybody in two years.

It’s been two years since the bottom fell out from his life and he lost everything he had scraped and struggled for: the good job in the big city on the coast, his home, and the man he thought he was going to be with for the rest of his life. He had come back to his home state with his tail tucked between his legs - betrayed and bereft and with nothing to show for all his hard work.

That night as he heats up his frozen “all in one” dinner in the skillet, he recounts all of his conversations with Ben. He tries to think of a time Ben had hinted he needed anything: food, shelter, money, Hux’s help in any way. He pokes at the frozen chicken and pasta with his spatula. Ben has never asked him for anything. He frowns, poking at the frozen clumps of broccoli in order to separate them; Hux has never offered him anything, either.

He leaves the TV off as he sits on his couch with his dinner balanced in a bowl on his lap. He’s not thought clearly in months - he knows there’s a solution to the Ben problem, but he doesn’t have the strength of mind to fit the pieces together. He pokes dully at a piece of chicken, chews it while staring off at nothing in particular. He could alert the authorities of Ben’s presence. He could offer to take Ben to a shelter. Or to any friends or family that would be willing to help. He could never step foot in the preserve again. Hux sits back into his couch, dinner only half eaten as he continues to stare at nothing. He’s not going to do any of those things.

The following Saturday he offers Ben the extra cliff bar he had packed. Ben declines.

That night he dreams of Ben. Everything is soft and loose around them, and Hux is mostly aware that he’s dreaming. _This is a good thing_ , he thinks. This way he can do what he wants; what he can’t do when he’s awake. He pins Ben to the soft, green ground and breathes against him - their lips barely brushing. He struggles to keep his eyes open and focused on Ben. A thought echoes around the edges of his mind - if he kisses Ben he will need to keep his eyes open. If he closes his eyes there’s a chance that he might wake up, or the dream will shift and Ben will be lost.

Slowly, carefully he brings his mouth to Ben’s. Ben’s mouth is soft and his body hard and he is perfect, more perfect than Hux could’ve imagined.

“You’re perfect” He says, staring into Ben’s odd, long face. “You’re perfect for me. It’s like I dreamed you.”

Ben smiles. “You are dreaming me,” he says.

When Hux wakes up light is softly streaming through his blinds. He groans and turns away from the light, trying to bury his head into the pillow. Maybe if it’s dark he can go back to sleep, back to the dream with Ben. _Ben_. He groans again, softer this time as he reaches beneath his waistband to adjust himself. He’s hard; throbbing in his shorts and slick at the tip. He shivers and bites his pillow as he spreads the wetness with his thumb slowly, imagining Ben’s big hands on his cock and his soft breath at his neck.

He pumps himself once, twice, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to recall the dream and how Ben had felt under him. He can see Ben’s face looking up at him, smiling - _“You are dreaming me._ ” Hux’s eyes fly open and his hand stills; his breathing loud in the silence of the room. He swallows, clenches his eyes shut again and tries to chase the feeling of the dream, of Ben, but he can’t. He can hear Ben’s words echoing inside his head and they’re wrong, somehow. It all feels wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s Wednesday and Hux is wearing his glasses. He normally reserves them for Fridays; by then his eyes are usually killing him and he feels a satisfaction in having earned the right to be casual for all his hours worked. But it’s Wednesday and he’s wearing them because he stood in his bathroom for five minutes this morning and stared at his contact lenses like they were going to put themselves in. He’s either getting lazy or he’s reached a whole new level of exhausted. The permanent dark smudges under his eyes tell him it’s the latter.  
  
He tugs his glasses off roughly and presses his fingers into his eyes. He exhales, and colors shift and shatter in the blackness. He keeps pressing. The colors explode; a painful supernova behind his eyelids. He presses until it’s too painful to bear and blinks the stars out of his vision in the cold, white light of the office. He glances at the time and sighs. Once again, he’s not making it to the preserve tonight; most likely not until the weekend. He hopes Ben is taking care of himself.

  
Hux is rummaging through his fridge for the third time that night, hoping something will magically cook itself, when he hears his phone vibrate angrily on the kitchen counter. It’s a text from his brother.

_“Mom called. Said to call u and check up.”_

Hux clenches his jaw. Of course his brother couldn’t even pretend to have texted of his own accord. Like it would’ve been too painful to just feign brotherly concern or interest for one night. Hux stands rigidly in the middle of his kitchen, glaring at the screen as he types his response.

_“I’m fine. I just saw her a few weeks ago. Talked to her Sunday.”_ Well, technically he sent her some meme about drinking wine, but whatever. He communicated with her. Brendol Jr. doesn’t need to know the specifics.

_“K. She still v worried.”_

Hux has a sudden, violent urge to throw his phone. He grips it tightly in his hands, fingertips turning white as he tries to control his breathing.

"Fuck you.” he says aloud to the screen. “Fuck you, Jr. Fuck you.”

_“Said you been workin lots of OT.”_ His brother continues, unaware of his outburst.

_“Yes.”_ He replies, gritting his teeth as he types. _“We’ve lost some people and they aren’t replacing them. Have had to pick up the slack_.”

_“Fucknuts.”_

_“Yep.”_

_“Ok then. Good. Think she worried that u workin so much bc you depressed or some shit. About Brian still.”_

Hux frowns. Like his mother, his older brother tended to ask few questions about his love life. Jr. had never liked Brian, although he had only met him a handful of times in those 9 years.

“So, I did pretty good right?” Hux had asked his brother, assuming he’d get a positive answer. Two years after he had graduated college and a year after his brother had eloped with his now wife, Jr had thought to invite their mother out to Virginia for a week. He and Hux had split the cost of her plane ticket, while Hux and Brian had driven the 8 hours from Boston to Fort Belvoir.

“Yeah,” his brother answers, wrinkling his nose. “I mean, you’re an accountant, right? Shit Mitt, nobody ever thought you’d be anything but”

Hux rolls his eyes. “I mean about Brian.” said boyfriend was out of the room at the moment. Hux knew his mother would never say anything outright one way or the other, but he had wanted Jr’s opinion. Well, Jr’s verbalization that Hux had somehow managed to bag a handsome, smart, charming man who was way out of his league.

“He’s fine” Jr. takes a sip of his beer, looks away.

 

Hux sighs and leans against the kitchen counter, deflated. _“It’s been two years.”_ He types slowly, choosing his words carefully. _“I’m moving on. I haven’t talked to mom about him since we broke up. I don’t know why she would think that. I’ve just been working a lot, that’s all.”_

 

Hux jerks awake to a cracking thunder in the pitch dark of his room. He groans, turns over and tries to pull the comforter over his head as his room is illuminated by a streak of lightning. It sounds monstrous outside - the rain heavy and the wind shrieking against his windows. Hux usually likes storms; had always found comfort in cozying up inside on a rainy day. He pulls the blankets tighter around him; safe and warm and - _oh, shit_. He's upright in an instant. Ben. Ben is outside. Hux is inside and safe but Ben isn’t, not for sure.

He clambers out of bed and pulls open the blinds.

“Fuck.” He hisses.

He can see the rain pouring down the street like an impromptu river. The trees in front of his building are bent and stretched in the screaming wind. He can see branches scattered on the ground below them in the orange of the street lamps. He suddenly feels dizzy, and rests a hand along the window sill to steady himself. He reaches a shaky hand under his shirt and the skin along his sternum is damp. He can feel his heart like a hot, pulsing jackhammer

He tosses and turns the rest of the night, and by 6am he has made his decision. He grabs his phone from the nightstand and carefully types an email to his supervisor, letting him know he would be taking a sick day. He makes himself a pot of coffee, and even though he had just called in sick, still starts to get his work clothes out before he realizes what he’s doing.

The drive to the preserve has Hux gripping the steering wheel like Ben’s fate depends on whether or not he can hold on. He oscillates between cursing every single driver going either below or exactly the speed limit and a terror that makes him wish the drive was longer. The image of Ben, twisted and pale on the forest floor has been behind his eyelids for hours. He can’t shake the feeling that maybe if he turns around now, goes back to his apartment and never goes back to the preserve, that Ben will still be alive. As if searching for him is condemning him.

He sits in his car in the parking lot for exactly five minutes before he forces himself to get out. It stopped raining a few hours ago, but the air is still thick and damp in the gray morning. He bites his lip as he looks towards the cloudy sky. The news had predicted more rain starting in the late morning to early afternoon. If he wants to find Ben he has to do so now. He grabs his rain jacket (just in case), locks his car, and heads towards the trail.

He steps over fallen tree limbs that litter that trail, tennis shoes sinking into the mud before he realizes that he’s heading towards the shore. That’s where Ben almost always finds him, but the reason he’s even here is to make sure Ben isn’t hurt. If Ben is hurt he almost certainly isn’t going to go to the shore. Where should he even be looking for Ben? Hux stops in the middle of the trail and covers his eyes with his fingers; he tries to regulate his breathing while pressing as hard as he can. He presses until his eyes ache, until he sees stars.

“Hux?”

Hux tears his hands away and spins around. He looks at the impossible as he sways and stumbles, suddenly feeling dizzy.

“Are you okay?” Ben continues slowly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Yes, I’m - fine.” Hux manages. Ben is whole and perfect. He is clean, unmarred by the rain or mud. Hux frowns and looks at Ben’s clean bare feet.

“How did you -” he begins.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Ben interrupts and takes a step forward. “ You look pale. Well. Paler than usual.” His mouth twists up.

“I was worried.”

“About what?”

“About you. Ben." Hux stops, tightens his fists.  "You know there were terrible storms last night, right?"

Ben shrugs and continues to look at Hux unperturbed. His shirt is as white as ever.

"I was worried you were hurt.” Hux feels outside himself, separate.

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, and I’m glad. Extremely glad." He rakes a hand through his hair. "But how did you..” He gestures broadly towards Ben. _How did you escape unmarred? How did you find me?_ He glances down once more at Ben’s long, pale, and unsullied feet. “How did you..”

The sound of a dog barking has Hux twisting down towards the trail several yards. A fit, elderly man is tugging on the leash of a collie attempting to bully a squirrel out of a tree.

He turns back to keep questioning Ben, but he’s alone. Ben's sudden absence is a yawning void. He stumbles back and takes a step into the squelching black mud. He looks down and his sneakers are almost consumed by it.

“Oh, yeah” the man with the dog slows his pace, but doesn’t stop as he walks by Hux.  
“It’s pretty dry up there" he points to the direction of the trailhead "but the farther you in go the goddamn messier it gets.”

“Should’ve worn my boots…” Hux replies absently. The man and his dog continue up the trail.

Hux stares down at where his feet have sank in the mud. He looks to where Ben had been standing. Ben with his clean black hair and crisp white t-shirt and his long, pale feet.

Hux slowly, shakily lifts up a foot to place it where Ben had been. His toe sinks in immediately; thick black mud threatening to swallow him up. He shivers in the warm, wet breeze.

Hux turns and plods up the trail. The smell of damp green things is almost unbearable.

His eyes are unfocused as he head through the parking lot and to his car. He stares at the car door handle, unable to make his hand work to open it. He slides down the side of his car to sit on the pavement. He sits there until he feels a cold, wet drop of rain on his shoulder.

 

He throws himself into his work. His work is real. First Order Financial is real.

Ben isn't -

This immersion into his work – where he’s not a person, but a person shaped automaton – only lasts until he steps into his apartment. The air is stale there, and he has to fight the twist in his gut when he reads the clock. Before, the time would’ve allowed him to go to the preserve. To hurriedly pull on a t-shirt and jeans and just enough time to see –

He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the thought before it even takes hold. He pulls open a cabinet door beside the fridg and grabs a bottle of bourbon that is slightly dusty. _Yes, this will do,_ he thinks. He doesn’t bother with a glass.

 

He manages to maintain a level of drinking that eradicates rational thought while making work the next day bearable. He succeeds, mostly. Most nights he can drink himself into a comfortable fuzzy state. He's able to make his lunch for the next day, get his clothes ready, brush his teeth and flop into bed without much thought.

Other nights he keeps tipping the bottle back (still no glass, _what’s the point?_ ) and he barely manages to collapse into bed and remember to set his alarm.

On even rarer nights, when he’s drunk enough not to care but still not forget, he lays himself down into bed and thinks of Ben. Only abstractly, of course. He large, long hands. His well-muscled arms and broad shoulders barely contained by his white t-shirt. His dark eyes and dark, soft-looking hair. His mouth.  
Hux clumsily coats two fingers in lube and pushes them in and out of his hole, stroking himself and turning his head to bite neatly at his pillow. _Ben,_ he thinks. _Ben_. And the Ben in his fantasies growls low in his throat, snaps his hips up into Hux ceaseslessly, without mercy until Hux comes with a whimper and paints his belly in long, hot streaks of white.


	4. Chapter 4

He continues this way for weeks. The heat is damnable, damp and oppressive. He’s sweating through his shirts before he gets into the door to work, the air conditioning in his car doing its best but not enough.

There are days when he's sure his cubicle is smaller than it had been. He's sure he used to have more space, more room to stretch and turn. It's not that he expects much, not like the actual office with a door he had shared in Boston.

He shakes his head, takes a deep breath and frowns at the spreadsheet in front of him. Where was he, again?

There are times when after an afternoon of talking himself up he gets home and rushes to change into his hiking gear. He tells himself that going back to the forest, that facing this thing is the only way to move on. Some days he gets farther than others; in various states of dress and readiness before the nausea overwhelms him and his plans are abandoned.

On a muggy Friday afternoon mid-August he cuts out of work at 5:00, only feeling slightly guilty about working nine hours instead of his usual ten or eleven. He feels leaden as he walks up the stairs to his apartment, the air stale and slightly smoky in the stairwell. He doesn't feel his normal relief walking into his apartment. Its ordinariness - tidy and compact and beige, had given him a sense of control since Boston. Now it feels dark and empty and lonely, the blinds down to keep out the sun and the walls bare of pictures or art. _You are pathetic_ , he thinks and crosses the kitchen to reach for the bourbon.

 

The following Monday he gets an email from his supervisor that makes his heart stop.

 _“Meet me in the small conference room at 10:00”_.

Hux checks the clock – it’s 9:55. What could it be? Is he being let go? Another victim of First Order Financial’s "sad but necessary" re-structuring of staff? He spends the next three minutes trying to compile a list of accomplishments, of ways he has contributed to the overall efficiency and excellence of the institution.

At 9:58 he begins the gauntlet. He walks quickly even though a slow pace would get him there in 30 seconds. First Order Financial isn’t especially large, but it’s still a force to be reckoned with. Lean, up and coming and chock full of opportunity for advancement. At least, that's what the HR manager had said when she had interviewed him. At the time Hux had been in the city for two weeks and desperate for a paycheck. He took the first job offered, which was an analyst position at First Order. He had later been called by various other financial institutions including Federation Banking. He had politely turned down their offers for interviews – it would be bad form to leave a job he had just started.

He forces himself to smile at his supervisor, Orson, as he takes a seat opposite him at the small table in the cramped conference room. Hux thinks the room was originally an equally cramped office. He clasps his hands on the table, wills himself to stop shaking. He can feel a bead of sweat on his hairline.

Orson drones on for three minutes about what an asset Hux has been, how valuable he has been to the company, how surely they would’ve perished in the onslaught of work if Hux hadn’t been there with his superhuman productivity which was only matched by his dedication – shown by his overtime, which was appreciated more than Hux knew .

Orson slides a piece of paper across the table at him. Hux stares down at it uncomprehendingly.

“It’s your annual review. You have mostly 9 out of 10’s. There’s an increase in pay.”

Hux rests his hand on the paper, bewildered. Another year has passed by so quickly...

“I’ll have to say, Mitt,” Hux snaps his head to look at Orson, “I’ll have to say, I almost didn’t approve this raise.” Orson raises an eyebrow.

Hux is struck dumb. He looks back toward his seemingly glowing review.

“You’ve done really well these past two years, but these past two weeks have been disappointing. You've made more errors in the past 14 days than you have the entire year.”

Hux feels his face redden, ashamed at being ashamed.

“But, I can’t ignore how well you’ve done here, considering. Everyone has their rough patch, yeah? Just make sure this is a short one.”

Hux walks unsteadily back to his desk, the rows of cubicles blurring and shifting in his periphary. He sits stiffly in his chair, eyes unfocused.

In Boston, his yearly reviews were always outstanding and marked with raises. He had stayed at the same company since graduation and had been promoted several times. He still remembers one of the comments a supervisor had written on his appraisal sheet: "Armitage's true strength is bringing people together under a common goal and leading them with passion and integrity." He had kept that appraisal, along with all his others in a folder in their filing cabinet alongside their various tax and insurance documents. Brian had always teased him about his meticulous record keeping.

Hux winces. He left all of that when he left Boston.

He had literally only taken his clothes, his laptop and his Purdue diploma declaring him summa cum laude before beginning the two day trip back home. When he had stopped it had been in Pennsylvania to snatch a few hours of sleep. When he woke up, even more dazed and disoriented than before, he realized he had to make the call. He had sat on the scratchy hotel comforter and shakily dialed Rae, his supervisor, to tell her that he was sorry, but that he was leaving. He still remembers her confusion, her annoyance when she had asked him where was he and what did he mean he wasn't coming back?

"I guess getting out of the Manchester meeting didn't work out so well for me." He had said tonelessly, staring at the faded wallpaper of his hotel room.

"Oh, no....Armitage."

He had been dreading the overnight stay and day-long meetings in Manchester for weeks. He wasn't even presenting this time, and it would severely cut down on his time to get several other projects done.

They were supposed to leave after work to head up there, stay the night and have meetings all day before heading back down. At 4:45 Rae had stopped by his office.  
  
"How much do you love me?" She demanded, arms crossed and suit jacket straining along her shoulders.

"I worship the ground you walk on," He deadpanned.

"I decided we need you here tomorrow instead of up in Manchester. Wipe that grin off your face, Armitage."

"I'm not, I was happy to go." He lies, unable to keep from smiling.

"You're a terrible liar," she rolls her eyes. "Now go surprise that boyfriend of yours."

It had been a surprise, at least for Hux. To see a man he didn't recognize leave his apartment. To find the bed unmade and Brian in the shower.

  
He tries to work more carefully the rest of his day, mindful of his conversation with Orson. That night he pulls out his old laptop and googles symptoms of stress and sleep deprivation while eating his dinner. He reads about auditory and visual hallucinations, and even clicks on a link that details the symptoms of schizophrenia. He takes a sip of bourbon (a glass, this time) and scoffs at most of what the internet tells him. He's been stressed for months, years, possibly his entire life; but he thinks he's only been sleep deprived in the past few weeks. That's not a solution. Neither is schizophrenia; he's 31, older than the normal age when symptoms begin to manifest. He stumbles to bed.

The next night is long. He googles and symptom-checks until his eyes are blurry and his half-eaten chow mein goes cold. He takes a few pulls of bourbon and goes to bed.

Wednesday he doesn't get home until almost 8:00. He's laying on the couch in his sweatpants, waiting for his frozen pizza to cook when he opens the Google Chrome app on his phone. He bites his lip, frowns, and closes the tab. He opens Facebook, something he does maybe once a week. He spends five minutes trying to distract himself before he "likes" every single photo his sister-in-law has posted of his two young nieces in the past two weeks. He checks the timer he set on his phone; there's seven minutes before the pizza is done.

He grimaces while tapping his phone on his front teeth; there's no shame in googling something, he reasons. Plenty of people have probably searched for worse things - more obscene, more stupid, more embarrassing than what he is plannning. He checks the timer again: 6 minutes. Hux shifts and tries to nestle further into the couch. He brings his phone close to his face, opens a private window and searches "ghosts".

Thursday night finds him digging through his bedroom closet, shirts and shoes and belts strewn about. It's probably not the best time to begin a deep cleaning and organization, but Hux can't hike and he can't google and he's half on his way to becoming an alcoholic and he needs to do _something_.

The bourbon bottle sits on the carpet next to him, and he reaches for it distractedly. His throat burns despite his regular use and he brings a pair of work shoes up for closer inspection. Fuck. Has he even bought new things since he came back? He sets them back down and rubs at his temples. The memory of Ben standing in the middle of the trail flashes before him. Ben, with his dark eyes and dark hair, untainted by the rain or mud -

He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his thumbs against them. He can't go down that train of thought, can't keep conjecturing what Ben might or might not be. Hux isn't stupid; he doesn't believe in ghosts and he's certainly not hallucinating from a few hours of of overtime or a brand new mental illness. He releases a shaky breath. Whatever Ben is....He grabs the bottle again. Whatever Ben is doesn't matter. He's not Hux's friend and he never was.

Friday is a lost cause. He gets a text from his mom early in the morning that makes him want to pull the covers over his head and never wake up.  
_"Just wanted to say so PROUD of u! U r so smart and I know u will find better job soon!"_

He burrows further into bed, trying to hide his face from the gray dawn light that's drifting in through his blinds, and thinks of one of the last times he talked to Ben.

 "No, I'm serious," he says, leaning in and letting his shoulder brush against Ben's, "I seriously have Ellen Degeneres to thank for-" he flounders, makes an awkward gesture, "un-homophobing my mom."

Ben just raises an eyebrow, and Hux feels himself redden. Ben still unnerves him, makes him forget his words or jumble them. He's never been so unarticulate in his life.

"I-" Ben opens his mouth and closes it, frowning at the forest floor. They're sitting on their log by the lakeshore, and Hux has inched himself closer over the span of the hour. Either Ben doesn't care or hasn't noticed, most likely the latter.

"I'm lucky, I guess." Ben finishes, looking out at the lake before them. "I've never had that problem."

Hux forces a quick smile and looks out over the water, the waves slow and sloppy as they hit the beach.

"I'm surprised you still, you know," Ben continues to look at the lake, "still talk to her. Take care of her." He pauses, turns and gives Hux a weak smile, "I'm less forgiving."

  
Hux works through his lunch break as usual, but he grabs his phone of out his desk drawer with half a turkey sandwich in his hand. He looks at his mom's text again. He still hasn't replied. What can he say? The truth is he's worse off at 31 than he was at 28 and he's going nowhere fast. Just a few days ago he got a minimal raise for a job he hates and a company that's sucking the marrow out of him. He's alone now too; the closest thing he had to a friend--

No, Hux thinks and shoves his phone back into his desk drawer. No, no more of that.

 

That night he's huddled on the couch, phone cradled between his hands and an almost full glass of bourbon on the side table. He thinks of Ben again. Of that conversation.

 "I'm surprised you still, you know," Ben continues to look at the lake, "still talk to her. Take care of her." He pauses, turns and gives Hux a weak smile, "I'm less forgiving."

Hux bites his lip, tries to form words while Ben is so close and still focused on him.

"It's, I mean -" Good start, Hux, he thinks.  "It's not easy. But whatever she's done," He he inhales sharply, " -my dad was still ten times worse." He straightens, tries to keep from wincing. He wants to tell Ben, wants to explain to him, to someone.  
" And she tried, you know. To help me how she could." Hux can't tear his eyes away from the water, but he can feel Ben's gaze on him. "So, I feel like I owe her for that. For trying." He shrugs. "I don't know if it's right or wrong." He turns and Ben is watching him, face neutral. "I don't know." He swallows and looks away, for once unable to be the center of Ben's focus.

 Hux brings up his mom's text again, and takes a sip of his drink before he types.

_"Thanks, mom. I'm updating my resume this weekend for a few jobs I've seen online."_

Fuck, he thinks and hits "send". He grabs his glass. He has fallen so far; googling "evidence of ghosts"and lying to his mother. Unless...

He sets his glass back down, brings up the web browser on his phone. He had looked a few times at the job postings, but he hadn't been impressed. If he was going to make a change it needed to be a better position and better pay. He didn't want to go to one shitty job to the next, and he didn't want to be seen as a job-hopper. As somebody afraid or unable to commit, even if it had been their idea in the first place. He sneers as the old bitterness rears its head, making him flush as he remembers Brian's feeble attempts to pacify him as he threw his clothes into suitcases.

He winces, shakes his head. No. He's moved on, he's beyond all that - beyond Brian and beyond betrayal. He brings up Federation Banking's website and hits "Careers".

Saturday morning he wakes up with a slight headache. He scowls at the bright morning light piercing through his blinds and drags the covers over his head. In the dark like this he can forget. Grab a few more minutes of unthinking stillness, of oblivious peace. He sighs as he drifts, thoughts of rain and mud and Ben swirling together into a memory.

"I don't know." He swallows and looks away, for once unable to be the center of Ben's focus.

The silence following is unbearable. What is he doing, telling a stranger all of this? He's such and idiot. How could Hux have possibly thought that Ben-

"I don't think there's a manual for that sort of thing." Ben says slowly, interrupting his internal tirade. Hux shifts his gaze back to Ben. "Or a formula where you plug in the variables and get the right answer, tax man." He grins, all bright white teeth that look sharper than usual in the afternoon sun.  
  
"You know I don't do taxes." Hux sniffs, wishing he could literally die from embarrassment. He's exposed, he showed Ben a vital part of himself because he's _weak_ and now Ben _knows_ and -  
  
"I know that you like to quantify." Ben's grin softens. "And that you think there's a right and a wrong way of doing things." Ben bumps his shoulder gently against Hux's. His brain short circuits. Christ, Ben is warm. "Stop worrying. There's no answer sometimes."

Hux regards Ben, the afternoon sunlight illuminating his normally dark eyes. There's a halo of light around him, and Hux feels suddenly that Ben's farther away, more untouchable than ever.  
"  
Hux...." Ben starts, biting his lip. He shifts closer, and Hux can feel him softly exhale.

Ben dips his head slightly and Hux doesn't move, frozen still. Ben's lips are soft against his own, and warm, and one of Ben's broad hands moves to rest on his thigh. Hux shivers. Ben continues to kiss him softly, gently moving his lips against Hux's. Hux wants to kiss back, wants to touch Ben, but if he moves-

A shrill jangling cuts through his dreams, his alarm announcing that his "snooze" was over. He fumbles to shut it off, head falling back into the pillow. His sleepy recollection had turned into a dream. He'd never kissed Ben. Hux covers his face with his hands and groans. _Fuck, Ben._ He sighs. Makes his decision.

He throws the covers off and stalks to his shower before he can talk himself out of it.

On the drive to the woods he turns up NPR to an almost uncomfortable volume and refuses to think about the implications of seeing Ben. The implications of _not_ seeing him.

He's able to find a parking spot, but since it's mid-morning on a Saturday the parking lot is significantly more full than usual. Hux doesn't hesitate as he gets out of his car and slams the door behind him. He's doing this. He needs answers, one way or another. He makes his way to their usual spot, the trail interspersed with people and the woods buzzing with life. Hux pauses as he nears the lake shore. He fists his hands at his sides, a sharp electrical feeling thrilling over his skin. The sunlight strikes through the tops of the trees and sets all the green alight.

Hux treads carefully as he nears their spot. Every dark tree limb, every scurrying rodent snatches his gaze and sets his heart fluttering. He takes a deep breath as he steps off the trail and down the embankment to the shore where their favorite log sits.

Their favorite log, about 15 feet away, is currently hosting a young couple. Hux frowns. He gets out his phone and takes a picture of the lake, pretending that's what he originally intended. He walks back up the embankment and starts on the trail again. He figures he can follow the trail around the lake until where it borders the road. If he makes a perimeter and still hasn't found Ben, he can always go back to the log and wait. _For how long?_ The question forms unbidden, but Hux pushes it away. It doesn't matter. However long it takes.

Hux begins his patrol. The trail doesn't completely encircle the lake, but it's a good three miles until it stops at the beach. After that the road curves around the lake for a short while, an old wooden fence and about 6 feet of grass the only thing keeping a car from pitching completely in.

He stops a few times, convinced he heard his name. Or that there was a dark shape just out of the corner of his eye, somewhere deep behind the trees. Once, when he's alone on the trail, he calls out Ben's name. A soft breeze shivers through the leaves. Nobody answers. Hux continues on.

He tells himself not to be disappointed when he gets to the end of the trail and still hasn't seen Ben. There's plenty of time, he assures himself, as he shades his face against the sun. He's come out at the shore again, the shade of the forest left behind. He looks around. It's not a bad spot, he supposes. There's a few grassy spaces to sit. But it's definitely not popular - not with the noise of the cars that pass by every so often.

Hux deflates and resigns himself to one of the grassy spaces along the shore. It's almost noon on a surprisingly mild August Saturday and the preserve seems packed. It's far too busy for Ben to approach him. He grabs a cliff bar from his rucksack and rips it open dully. He'll have to wait.  
  
He's in the middle of wiping the crumbs from his mouth  when he hears it. A woody splintering and shattering and the roar of an engine. He watches a jeep skate along the shore and fling itself into the lake.

He stares. He feels himself scrambling to get up. He watches himself wade into the dark, cold water.

The water sits a little above the bottom of the side windows. They're rolled down, and Hux hears before he sees the rushing of the water filling the jeep. The driver isn't helpful as Hux unbuckles his seat belt. His hands are shaky and he tries several times before the buckle unclapses.  Hux slips, shoes swallowed in the cold, sucking mud. He grabs the man around the shoulders and drags him through the open window. It hurts. The man is big, and Hux slips under his weight. They are both underwater. _You're drowning,_ Hux thinks.

They get righted, coming up for air. Hux isn't sure how. The man is still hanging on to him, stumbling through the mud and the cold, pungent lake water. They collapse on the grassy shore.

Hux, coughing and gasping, glances over at the man.

It’s Ben.

Except not. His hair is shorter, almost military, and he has a long, red scar bisecting his face from temple to jaw line. He's curled up on himself; cradling his head and coughing and sputtering.

Hux wants to touch him.

He can't.

He can barely look at him. He should ask if he’s alright. Somebody should call 911. He fumbles for his phone in his pocket. His pants are soaked and his phone is soaked but he keeps pressing the ‘on’ button anyways. Somebody should call 911.

“Are you guys okay?” Someone shouts from the trail. Hux looks up and sees a man and woman jogging toward them.

“I think. Someone. Should call 911.” Hux manages to answer. He doesn’t turn to look at Not Ben, but he can still hear him wheezing. “ I think he hit his head.”

The woman stops a few feet away, tears off her backpack and begins rummaging through it while the man crouches down next to Not Ben.

“Hey, friend. Are you alright? Can you tell me your name?” The man asks gently.

“What happened?” Not Ben's tone is flat. Hux turns his head slowly, painfully, to see Ben’s scarred doppelganger press a large hand to his forehead, face screwed up in pain. “What happened?” He asks again.

The ambulance comes and takes Not Ben away. Hux has to give a statement to the police. He drives home, sodden and slow. When he gets into the apartment it's the late afternoon. The hazy sunlight filtering in through the blinds illuminates the floating dust motes. Hux strips off his soggy clothes and takes a long, scalding shower before stumbling to bed. He doesn't dream.

The next morning he pours out all his booze; watches his bourbon swirl and chug noisily down the drain. He's not going back to the forest. Ben isn't real.

His Ben, at least.

His Ben had longish hair that brushed his jaw line. A clear, open face. That man had a couple months overgrown military cut and a brutish red scar cutting across his face. He hadn't recognized Hux, either. Although from his dazed expression and the way he kept repeating his questions, Hux wasn't sure Not Ben would've recognized anyone.

Hux frowns as he rinses out one of his whiskey bottles. It's obvious what has happened. Embarrassing - overwhelmingly humiliating, but obvious. He feels himself redden in the privacy of his apartment as he places the empty whiskey bottle in the recyling. He winces as it clacks against it's new neighbor, the bottle of Maker's Mark he had finished Friday.

He's been overworked, that much is obvious, he thinks. The musty smell of his carpet fogs the air as he vacuums his living room. The blinds are drawn, but it still feels too bright. He's been stressed, sleep deprived, he reasons. His mind has conjured up things.

He probably saw Not Ben at the grocery store once. Or maybe even in the preserve. It becomes clearer to him as he folds his laundry; his white undershirts all neatly arranged on his bed. He must have seen Not Ben once before and due to extenuating circumstances for which he cannot entirely be blamed, somehow concocted _his_ Ben.

Ben, the handsome and mysterious stanger. Ben, the kind and supportive listener. Ben, the playful and sardonic friend. Hux grits his teeth. He had been exactly what Hux had desired, had needed. Hux pushes his laundry basket to the ground and kicks it across his bedroom. The soft plastic makes an unsatisfying slap against the wall. _How pathetic_ , he sneers, disgusted with himself.

He busies himself with housework the rest of the day. He cleans his bathroom, sweeps, swiffers and dusts. He even wipes down his baseboards at 3:00 when his apartment begins to sparkle and offer him nothing more. He longs to grab a bottle of something and sit on his couch.

Instead, he makes his lunch for the next day. Picks out his outfits for the whole work week. He orders Chinese and sits down at the table with his laptop and looks at the job boards again. He's had his breakdown and now he has to move on.

The next week is consumed with resume tweaking, cover letter writing and job applications. He allows himself to buy a six pack of beer. He doesn't like beer and can only stand to have one a night. He feels it's a good compromise.  
  
Friday night has him on the couch, glass of wine in hand and a pizza in the oven. He feels it's an earned indulgence. He searches fruitlessly through Netflix, but he's watched all the documentaries he had put on his list and nothing is jumping out at him. He grabs his phone from the side table and opens Facebook. Maybe his brother or sister-in-law had put up new pictures of his nieces. That will waste a minute or two.

Instead, as soon as he opens the app there's a red flag in the corner of the screen. He has a message.

His heart races. Who would message him? Surely not Brian, again. Not after all this time.

He clicks on the icon, and the new message appears at the top of the list. He sees the icon first, and even though the face has a military helmet and sunglasses Hux _knows._

He taps to open the message from Ben Solo.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In February I got a new job. For 3.5 years I worked between 50-60+ hours a week. Now I'm working 40, and it feels so good! I so appreciate everyone who has commented or left kudos. Knowing people have enjoyed this has kept me writing and stayed my hand on the "Delete" button. Thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

Hux isn't panicking. He's not. He's simply changed his shirt two, now three times. He's not nervous about seeing Ben. It's just that -  
"Jesus." He mutters as he yanks off his shirt. Does he have nothing but button downs for work? He begins digging at the back of his closet. It's Labor Day weekend, and he doesn't want to be the idiot in jeans and long sleeves in 80 degee weather.

He settles on an old forest green t-shirt, a staple of his time in Boston and unworn since then. He sprays on cologne to mask the dusty smell of it, preserved but neglected.

The air conditioning is on full blast on the drive to the coffeehouse but the steering wheel is slippery with sweat. He recites Ben Solo's awkward, stilted Facebook message in his head. He's done so innumerable times; desperate for a hint of recognition, a clue that perhaps it wasn't all in his head.

_Hi. Thanks for saving my life. I'd like to buy you a coffee. As a thank you, and to ask you what you remember about that day. The doctor's best guess is that I had some sort of seizure. I want to ask you a few questions so I can piece together what happened._

_Feel free to ignore this message if you'd rather not. Thanks._

Hux pulls into the coffeehouse at 8:50; 10 minutes before their appointed meeting time. Usually he is hard pressed to go anywhere before 9am on a Sunday morning, but this is an exception. He glances at himself in the rear view mirror. He frowns at his ashen face and dark circles and runs a hand through his hair, wishing he had gelled it.

 

"So," Hux begins, gripping his cup of coffee. Ben sits military straight across from him, the short hair and scar a shocking contrast to the Ben he knew. _That you thought you knew,_ he corrects himself. "So, they think you had a seizure?"

"That was their best guess." Ben shifts in his seat uncomfortably. "Either that or a momentary lapse of sanity." He smiles tightly. "So not the best of options."

Hux hums in agreement, at a loss for words. He avoids Ben's eyes as he takes a sip of coffee. Ben is in black athletic shorts and a gray, clinging top. Clean and put together, but comfortable. Hux feels ridiculous in his clothes. What did he think this was, a date?

"But thanks, though. Again." Ben says, fists clenching and unclenching on the wrought iron table. His gaze flicks above Hux's head.

"Of course, you're welcome." Hux replies, his posture rigid. He feels guilty,somehow. "You probably would've been fine until the ambulance came. The water wouldn't have gone over your head in the jeep." A horrible realization floods him. "Actually, I probably endangered your life more than anything." He tries to remain calm, keep his expression neutral. He wants to say _We were both under the water for a second_ and _I could've killed you_.

Ben cocks his head. "Your instinct was to jump in and save me." His shoulders relax slightly "I think that's admirable."

Hux is about to snark _nothing admirable about negligible homicide_ , but then Ben brackets both large, heavy hands around his coffee cup. _Semper Fidelis_ is written in small, cursive blue below his inner elbow.

"Marines?" Hux asks, a strange sort of intrigue churning in his gut. Ben's gaze flicks to his arm.  
"Second Battalion, 7th Marines." Ben says automatically. It stirs something in the back of Hux's mind, but he can't reach it.  
"How long did you serve?" He asks instead.  
"9 years. Enlistsed right out of high school." He smiles grimly and points to his face. "Got this on my first tour, actually." The red and faintly jagged scar starts near his temple, cuts across the bridge of his nose and cheek and trails down his neck and beneath his t-shirt. "I started out with a bang." He deadpans.

Hux barks out a nervous laugh and takes another swallow of uncomfortably hot coffee. "I don't really remember much from that day." He says, eager to change the subject. "Nothing that would be useful at least."  
"I didn't say anything?" Ben frowns, gaze flicking between Hux's face and the space above his left shoulder.  
"Like what?"  
"Anything." He squeezes his coffee cup. "Like if I swerved to avoid hitting a deer."  
"You kept asking what happened." Hux looks down at the table where Ben's hands are gripping his cup. He clears his throat, continues "But I don't remember any deer around the area."  
"Well, it didn't have to be a deer." Ben curls his lip. "I'm a little roadkill shy these days. I almost hit a parked car the other day to avoid a squirrel."  
"Well," Hux says after a brief pause, "I'm sure the squirrel's family was very grateful."  
Ben snorts out a laugh. There's something razor sharp about him that Hux's gut screams is dangerous, unstable. Even so, Hux feels a pull towards him, unrelenting and absolute. He wants to be closer, even if he hurts himself on all of Ben's sharp edges.

"So, I was asking what happened. Yeah," Ben nods slowly, eyes flicking above Hux's head. "I kind of remember that." He brings the coffee to his mouth but doesn't drink. "You...you kept saying I hit my head."  
"Yes. Well, you were holding it. So I just assumed..." Hux trails off.  
"No, I mean. That makes sense. I probably hit it during impact." He puts his cup down like it is now a fact, weighed and measured.  
"So, you hike a lot at the preserve?" Ben asks after another awkard silence. "Fish people out of the lake often?"  
"I tried to go at least once a week. It's not that far from where I live. But, I tend to work a lot of overtime."

Ben asks where he works, what he does, and Hux tries to inform him without sounding like the most boring man in the entire world.

"Number cruncher, huh?" Ben smirks slightly. Hux is momentarily submerged by a wave of deja vu. He gulps for air.  
"I wish I could do stuff like that, actually." Ben continues unaware. "My mathematical abilities peaked at long division."  
It turns out Ben is going back to school for his BA in Graphic Design. Ben mutters as he says this, but straightens impossibly more; like he can't decide if he's embarrassed or proud.

"An artist." Hux can't keep the surprise from his voice. Ben's face shutters and Hux quickly adds. "I can barely draw stick figures." _You're an idiot_ , he thinks. "So, what do you like best?" He flounders, reaching for the first piece of wreckage to hold onto. "I mean, um, painting or drawing...." He trails off. Shit, how many types of art are there?

Ben stiffly tells him that he goes through phases with what he creates and enjoys, but he's recently been into watercolor landscapes.

"Oh, is that why you were at the preserve that day?" Hux inquires. "To paint?"  
Ben frowns. "I don't think so. I mean, I would never actually paint there. I would make a sketch first-" He waves his hand. "Whatever, boring." Hux is about to protest that fact when Ben says, "Like I said, I don't remember much from that day. I don't actually know why I was down there."

Hux opens his mouth to reply, and then closes it. He swallows. "It's not on your way anywhere..."  
"No." Ben shakes his head. "It's not on the way anywhere for me. I haven't even been there in years." He grimaces, visibly irritated.

Hux feels light, dangerously untethered. He inhales. Exhales. It's fine, he must've seen Ben somewhere else, the grocery store, perhaps. Conjured his Ben from a fleeting, unremembered glance at the frozen foods section.

"I mean, I just got back into town in July. There's a lot of places I haven't been in years, but.." Hux doesn't hear Ben after that. July? July. _July_. It reverberates in his skull and judders down his spine. He knows, he _knows_ he saw Ben, _his_ Ben before that. Didn't he?

"But you go there a lot?" Ben asks, seemingly trying to change the subject.  
"Yes, well. I did." Hux's words spill out before he can even think. "But I've stopped. Recently." Ben gives him a nod that Hux knows is meant to be understanding, sympathetic. Instead he feels dissected, weak and not even for the reasons Ben thinks so he says. "I've been trying to start running again."

Ben perks up at this. He asks Hux where he runs, how far, what time of day he goes, and various other questions that has Hux's palms sweating. Somehow he manages that he's been starting at Bink's lake after work, but he hasn't managed more than a couple of miles. He's not been often because of how popular the lake is, and he doesn't like to exercise with half the city. At least that last part is the truth.

Ben is apparently well versed on the subject and recounts his misadventures at finding and using different trails around and outside the city to run in peace.

"Have you tried Naberrie Trail at all?" Ben asks, eyes bright in the morning light.  
Hux tells him that he hasn't, and actually isn't sure where that is. Ben tries explaining it to him, naming various roads that Hux is only relatively familiar with. Ben brings out his phone momentarily before frowning and clearing his throat. "It's uh, not actually very well shown on Google maps." He shoves the phone back into his pocket. "You'll get lost trying to use their directions." Hux is about to reply that he can read a map, thank you very much, when Ben says, "I could just take you there."

He's struck speechless. Somehow he manages to form something like _I don't want to inconvenience you_ and Ben assures him its no inconvenience, no trouble at all. Hux isn't sure about that, but he also desperately wants to see him again. If it takes an awkward car trip to some bike trail in the suburbs, so be it.

It's almost 11:00 when they get up to leave, Ben's number in his phone and a tentative plan for the following Saturday.

"I hope I didn't freak you out by messaging you." Ben says as they walk towards the parking lot. "I'm sure you weren't expecting to be Facebook- stalked by the rando you saved from drowning."  
"No. I mean. It's fine. I'm glad you reached out." Hux winces. "Was it hard to get my name from the police?" He asks in a rush. "I don't know how any of that works. Confidentiality or anything."  
"What?"  
"The police. Isn't that how you got my name?"  
"No." Ben stops and frowns at him in the middle of the parking lot. "You don't remember?"  
"Remember what?"  
"Introducing yourself. I don't remember a lot from that day, but I remember that." Ben quirks a smile." 'Hux.' 'Husk?' 'No, Hux. H-U-X', it's my last name, technically.'" His reenactment leaves Hux cold. "Anyways, I'll text you later? Figure out the details?"

Hux nods, in a daze. He doesn't remember the drive home.

 

He tries to redirect his focus the following week. He has two goals: 1. Applying to jobs and 2. Somehow not make an ass of himself while running with Ben. Fuck. Why had he said that? He works through his lunch and only puts in 9 hour days the entire week. He goes to Bink's Lake, like he said he had, and tries running.

He only vomits twice, so he considers it a success.

 

He tries very hard not to think how Ben had recited a conversation he had with his Ben. And, when there are some nights he doesn't succeed, who notices if he falls off the wagon? A couple of glasses of wine are enough to make him fuzzy, forgetful. To fall asleep without dreaming.

He also reverts to another habit concerning Ben.

He takes a long lukewarm shower after he gets back to his apartment from his latest attmept at running. He wraps a towel around his waist and flops back onto his bed. He's going to get up. He just needs a minute.

One minute turns into ten, and before he knows it he's loosened the towel, uncovering himself. He shivers in the cool, air conditioned room, his nipples peaked. He strokes himself slowly, teasingly. Pinches a nipple and arches and groans, turned on by being exposed and wanting in the fading sunlight. He lets himself think of Ben. The new Ben, _the real Ben_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully, and he scowls as he tugs himself harder, banishing those thoughts for ones of Ben on his knees, clumsily sucking him off, eyes trained on Hux for signs of approval.

Hux pauses, spits in his hand and resumes stroking himself slowly but firmly, the fingers of his other hand pressing behind his balls. _'So good,'_ the fantasy Hux croons, running his fingers through Ben's short hair. _'So good for me. Here, sweetheart' he grabs his cock and starts fucking Ben's mouth slowly, gently, his sweet mouth already reddened and wet. Ben moans softly around his cock, and palms himself through his shorts. 'Take it out,' Hux commands softly. 'Show me.' Ben manages to push down his athletic shorts and boxers without taking his mouth off Hux. His thick, hard cock springing up and tapping his muscled stomach. He fucks into Ben's mouth a bit harder, one hand gripped in his dark hair, the other on his cheek, lightly thumbing his scar. Ben jerks himself, eyes closed and groaning while Hux slides in and out of his wet, hot mouth._

Hux groans aloud, hand working faster on his cock as he brings up his other hand to pinch cruelly on his right nipple. The scene changes, and now Ben is astride him, riding him fast and hard, sweat dripping down his chest. _One of his huge hands rest heavily on Hux's chest, effectively pinning him. Ben grips his cock and his low voice rumbles through Hux's bones, 'Fuck, Hux. Make me come. Come on-"_ Hux gasps and stiffens, come splattering his belly and dripping down his fingers as he strokes himself until he stops spasming, until its too much.

He takes another shower, feeling nothing but tired and dizzy from the heat and the steam.

 

All things considered, it's not as awkward as Hux thought it might be the following Saturday. He watches Ben pull into the coffeehouse parking lot with an older black Jeep.

"Your new vehicle?" Hux asks as he climbs in.  
"Huh?" Ben asks, scrunching his nose in a way Hux finds unbearably cute. "Oh, no. This is my car." He puts his hand on the back of Hux's headrest as he backs out of his parking space. "I totalled my dad's old Jeep."  
  
Ben explains that he had been staying with his parents until he had moved in with a friend from high school the previous weekend.

"My dad is really torn up about it. The Jeep." Ben clarifies. "He's had that piece of junk since before I was born. Won it off some shitbird in a poker game or something."

Hux doesn't know how to respond to that. He clears his throat. "I assumed this was your new car because it's so clean."

Ben barks out a laugh, "Uh, yeah, I don't like clutter. It stresses me out."

"I have a closet that needs organizing, if you ever feel like lowering your blood pressure."

Ben smirks. "Yeah, it was a good thing I was already planning on moving out." He makes a left turn onto the highway that will take them out of the city. "Besides wrecking my dad's beloved Falcon, the Jeep, yes it had a name and no I don't want to explain it." He pauses as he switches lanes, looking both in the rearview mirror and twisting around, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "But anyways, my uh, parents weren't impressed with my adult quirks."  
"They didn't want their closets organized?" Hux tries.  
"They find it annoying the same son who once missed freshman Homecoming because he wouldn't clean his room now organizes their mail. And suggests better places for it than," he throws a hand up, "scattered all over the godddamn kitchen table."

Hux laughs and Ben smiles hesitantly in the bright morning light. The sight is so familiar, so achingly similiar to his own Ben that Hux is almost convinced he can reach over and grab one of his hands and say 'Its me, it's Hux.' Like this Ben and his are one in the same, Ben just needs to be reminded.

"So, you grew up here, then?" Hux asks after a minute.  
" Born and raised." Ben drawls. "I've been halfway around the world and yet," He raises a hand and gestures to the suburbs that have slowly faded into pasture, "I still ended up in the glorious Midwest"  
"It's not so bad." Hux chides lightly, years of living in Boston automatically making him defensive; although he agrees with the sentiment.  
"No, it's not." Ben concedes. "What about you? You from here?"

Hux tries to make his story short. His father was a Drill Seargent at Fort Jackson in South Carolina. He died when Hux was in middle school and they moved to Outpost, a factory town just two hours south because his mother's brother had called and said the cost of living was good and there were plenty of jobs. Hux doesn't say his mother's decision to relocate him and Brendol Jr. to the middle of nowhere was also likely due to the fact that Brendol Sr. had died of a self-inflicted gunshot after news of a pending investigation into his misconduct with recruits.

"So, after high school you came up here?" Ben asks as they pull into the gravel parking lot, a faded wooden sign declaring "Naberrie Trail".  
"No," Hux smiles wryly as they get out of the Jeep. "I wanted to get out of that hick town and hit the East coast." He pauses. "I made it to Indiana. Purdue."  
"Well, it's still East." Ben quips, "Then you came back?"  
"Then after college I went to Boston." Hux has a momentary flare of panic. He swallows it, and doesn't look at Ben as he says. "My boyfriend, at the time, his family is there in Boston." Ben stops abruptly and Hux's heart leaps to his throat.  
"North or South?" Ben asks, pointing up and down the trail.  
"Oh, um. It doesn't matter." Hux looks up and down the paved trail, trees looming protectively on either side. "Have you run both?"  
"I've only been North."  
"Well, I wouldn't want to interrupt your routine." It comes out more sarcastic than he meant. He winces internally when Ben gives him a strange look.  
"You're right," Ben says, "Let's throw caution to the wind." He starts jogging southward. Hux gapes for a second before scrambling to catch up.

They jog silently for a few minutes. Hux strains to keep up, his side already aching. Damn that whiskey diet.

"So," Ben starts, sounding only slightly out of breath. Hux hates him. "So, uh, when did you guys move back? From Boston."  
"I-" Hux wheezes. "I moved back. Two years ago. After we broke up."  
"Oh. Um. Sorry. That sucks."  
Hux makes a noncommital noise that he hopes Ben interprets as nonchalence. Better to seem cold and unaffected rather than a woefully out of shape liar.

After four miles of jogging they walk for another half mile or so for their cool down, after which Ben had declared it was time to "sit the fuck down." They sprawl out on the grass near the trailhead, under the partial shade of a cluster of tall, thin trees. Hux is still struggling to breathe normally. Ben doesn't seem to have that problem, his arms tucked behind his head and his large, sweat soaked chest rising and falling steadily.

Hux's face actually stings from the sweat running down it. His cheat, his pits, the backs of his knees and even his ass are wet with it. He feels disgusted with himself on multiple levels, but Ben's presence keeps him from falling too deeply into self pity. Ben's shirt is dark with sweat on his chest and under his arms. His face is pink and serene, a patch of sunlight sitting high on his cheek. Hux wants to bury his face in Ben's chest. He wants to peel Ben's shirt off and kiss his way down, down his slick and sweaty torso until Ben is hard and hot in his mouth -

"So I'm not gonna lie," Ben says. Hux snaps his gaze to Ben's face. His eyes are still closed. "I'm not gonna lie, I usually take a much more...leisurely pace." He opens his eyes and frowns at Hux. "Please tell me you're not training for a race."

"I'm definitely not training for a race." Hux puffs out a laugh. "I haven't run that hard in years. You might have to carry me to the car."

"We can take turns." Ben winks. "Carry each other in shifts."

"I think you're vastly overestimating my upper body strength."

"You'd be surprised how much you can lift when adrenaline kicks in." Ben frowns suddenly, look away.

 

The walk to the car is subdued, the late summer breeze feels jarring to Hux. The drive is equally as quiet and Hux is more aware than ever that this Ben and his are not the same. He's been dreaming, and now he has to wake up.

"So," Ben says as they pull into the coffeehouse parking lot where Hux had left his car. "Let me know if you want to do this again." Ben runs a hand through his cropped hair. "Or if you need any help finding another spot that half the city hasn't found yet."  
  
" Yes." Hux says without thinking. "Yeah, yes. I mean, " He fumbles with the seatbelt, fingers slick with sweat. "I could use..someone to keep me going." He cringes."To keep me motivated. Instead of pressing the snooze every Saturday morning." He opens the car door and gets out, hand resting on the latch.

Ben quirks an eyebrow. "I'll text you about next Saturday, yeah?" Hux nods and starts to close the door when Ben says, "Oh, and, uh, have fun later. At your moms." Hux feels a stab of cold low in his gut. _No_ , he thinks. _I_   _only told the other Ben-_ "Moving her furniture or whatever. Perks of being a son, right?" Ben says a little ruefully. All Hux can manage is a frozen half smile. He closes the door and staggers back to his car.


	6. Chapter 6

Ben is not interested in men, that much Hux is certain of. Or, at the very least he's never had a boyfriend. Hux frowns as he scrolls through Ben's Facebook pictures, glass of cabernet in hand. Ben's Facebook friend request had been surprising, especially since it seemed he was hardly ever on it. Nevertheless, Hux had assigned himself the task of combing through Ben's profile like it was some archeological dig. He wants to sack the burial ground of Ben's social media and take every treasure for himself.

This is what he discovers: 1. The first pictures of Ben are when he's deployed. A much leaner, younger Ben looking solemn with his platoon members. 2. There is only one picture of him with his parents, posted about three years ago. Ben's maybe 6 or 7 with a gap-toothed grin. A handsome man in a vest and a young, dark-haired woman smile on either side of him. There's a familiar looking lake in the background. The name of the person who posted is unfamiliar, but the caption reads "At our favorite spot!" 3. There is a deluge of photos of him and various women. An overabundance of girlfriends, it seems, and each as different as the last. _Well_ , Hux thinks as he sips his wine, _at least his taste varies._ A shot of bitterness rises up in his gut, souring the wine. _Just not as varied as you'd like_ , a voice inside him sneers. Hux drinks until the voice is quieted, submerged and inert.

 

  
"How was your mom's?" Ben asks, once again breathing easy on their jog.

"What?" Hux gasps, trying to maintain Ben's pace.

"Your mom's." Ben enuciates and glances over. "You had told me. Last time. You were supposed to help move a chair? A couch? Or something-" He makes a vague gesture, " - a dutiful son would do."

"I. Uh." Hux sputters. "Yes. It was fine." Is all he can manage. "I don't even remember telling you." He laughs, falters. _I told the other Ben, not you_. The Ben who doesn't exist, that he dreamed up.

A cold blooms in Hux, starting in his belly and reaching out to his fingertips- pulsing and paralyzing. _Am I dreaming now?_

Ben frowns at him. "So. It's true what they say." He bites his lip in mock concern. "It's all downhill after 30."

Hux laughs, taken aback. "Fuck you."

"It's alright, man.You're getting old." Ben steps closer and knocks his shoulder. "Can't remember things like you used to." He doesn't move away. Their pace has relaxed. "I'm Ben." He says slowly, a hand coming to rest on his chest. Hux forces a smile and looks away. _Yes_ , he thinks. _I know_.

 

  
Ben texts him during the week. The first time Hux is startled. He opens the message cautiously, as if it might detonate in his hands. It's a link to an article, something about the top places to exercise within the city. Ben writes "I've been converted. Running is for fools. Hot Yoga is will soothe my soul *and* give me abs." Hux grins and quickly types, "I'm buying yoga pants NOW."

He notices most of Ben's texts come between 5 and 6 pm, which he later finds out is his "lunch" break. Ben goes to school during the day and does data entry at night.

"It's not the worst thing." Ben had said as he drove them back to Hux's car at the coffeehouse, their unofficial meeting place. "Fuck, half the time I'm spacing off. Look at the clock and an hour or two has gone by. You know?"

Hux doesn't know; he's never lost time like that. He had nodded anyway, smiled.

 

Hux listens to a voicemail on his lunchbreak. His heart had leapt at the unknown number but he steels himself for disappointment even as he lowers the volume on his phone, wary of anyone overhearing. A cheery voice tells him her name is Christie, she's from Federation Banking, and would she give him a call back about setting up a phone interview for the position he applied to? His heart pounds as he slips into a rarely used side office and returns the call.

When he gets back to his desk his first instinct is to text Ben. He open a blank text message and stares at the gaping whiteness, bright and cruel. So they ran together a few times, exchange texts mostly in the form of article links and memes. They're not really friends, are they? Hux closes the message.

He runs at Binx's lake that night, still irritated at the number of people but determined to keep in shape for his weekly runs with Ben. He thinks each time gets easier, if only by degrees. Afterwards he lays on the cool linoleum of his kitchen floor and texts him, fingers trembling and slick with sweat.

_"I have a phone interview with Federation Banking on Tuesday."_

He drags himself off the floor, takes a short lukewarm shower and starts his dinner. He's sitting on his couch at 10:00, glass of wine in hand and unwilling to admit he needs to go to bed when his phone buzzes.

 _"!!!! Just got home from work. Thats awesome! !! We should grab a"_ Hux frowns at what appear to be several beer emojis.

_"Thanks - haven't got the job yet, so may be a bit early to celebrate"_

Hux watches the three dots stop and start for several minutes, as if Ben is typing and retyping his answer.

Finally, Hux reads _"An interview is a victory"_

A few seconds later, _"So let me buy you a beer on Sat."_ Hux feels his stomach tighten. He _wants._

_"Phasmas been on my ass about the mysterious stranger who saved my life and I now jog with. Want to meet us at Maz's at 8?"_

The minutes tick by as Hux stares at his phone. He wants desperately to see Ben, but adding someone else into the equation makes him pause. He's heard about Phasma, of course. Ben's best friend from high school who offered him the second bedroom in her apartment.

 _"Unless that's too late for your delicate senior citizen sensibilities." Ben_ adds.

Hux stares at the text messages, starting and scratching a dozen replies in his head.

After a minute Ben sends, _"She's mtg friends downtown at 9 so we should be done before your bedtime."_

Hux doesn't want to wait any longer to respond, worried that Ben will think he's uninterested. _"That sounds good. I suppose I can record my programs for later viewing."_ A few seconds second later, worried Ben thinks him serious, he sends _"Ha ha."_

Ben replies with a series emojis: a line of thumbs up. Several beer steins. Two lines of party hats and confetti.

 _"Still on for Saturday morning at 10:00 then?"_ Hux types back, confirming their weekly appointment.

"Yep. Gonna be sick of me soon." Ben sends, along with a final line of mixed emojis: A heart, a beer stein, a thumbs up, a party hat, another heart, three beer steins and two thumbs up. Hux bites his lip to contain his smile.

  
Their Saturday run goes smoothly without the mention of Hux's interview or Ben's invitation to get drinks. Hux almost wonders if he imagined it. Maybe it was another product of his fevered imagination; his stress induced hallucinations of friendship, of the possibility of more. He's almost relieved in a sense. He has an idea of where this is going, the trajectory of his and Ben's friendship.

He knows that this will wither and die like all of his other relationships. Eventually it will get colder outside, and running together will be less convenient. Ben will get over the sense of obligation he feels towards Hux, and the texts will dry up before they stop completely. Hux suddenly hopes for an uncommon October snow - a swift and peaceful end.

It's the end of September, and it's almost too cool in the shade of the oak where they are sprawled. Hux is flat on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. Ben is sitting close; a slight shift and Hux could press them together in a long line of heat.

"So," Ben shifts and taps his foot against Hux's, knocking him from his reverie. "We still have a date?"

Hux is struck dumb. He knows Ben didn't mean it like that, but he can feel his face start to flush and he can't form a reply, can't even think straight, brain caught in a loop of _date, date, date_ and the heat of Ben's body, only inches away. Hux peeks out from under his arm.

"Unless you have something else going on." Ben says airily and grabs the toe of his shoe and pulls himself towards it; his long, strong body stretching ever forward.

"No," Hux hesitates. " I penciled you in."

"Awesome." Ben switches legs, turning his face away.

 

Maz's is a small pub on the outskirts of the downtown area. It proudly proclaims a "Est. 1952" plaque in the front and as Hux walks in to the low ceiling, dark wooden paneling and the smell of dust and fried food, it appears they've never redecorated.

"It's good to finally meet you." Olga Phasmanov sits across from him, casually gripping her local craft brew. She's radiant and confident, and when they shook hands Hux had wondered when she and Ben would start dating, officially.

"I was a little worried Ben had hit his head a little too hard, made up a new friend." She winks at Hux. He's dumbfounded.

"I'm real." It comes out a question.

"It's just that Ben won't go jogging with me because even my breathing 'distracts him from finding his center.'" She goes on, her finger quotes a tad aggressive.

"That, and your incessant bitching about how much you hate running before, during and after said run." Ben interjects and shifts slightly closer to Hux, their shoulders almost touching. The three of them are crammed in a small booth in the corner, the wall plastered with black and white photos of people and places dead and changed. Olga sits alone across from them. She rolls her eyes.

The conversation shifts to Ben's painting. Ben himself is reticent, sipping his beer and scanning the room.

"Have you seen any of Ben's work?" Olga asks.

"No, actually." Hux replies, surprised at himself. He's always been curious, but he hadn't wanted to push...

"Well," She starts digging through her purse, "Thank god for technology."

"Hux doesn't-" Ben protests, but Hux is already leaning over the table, Phasma showing him pictures of Ben's watercolors on her phone.

They're both beautiful and eerie. A forest familiar yet forbidden; transculent trees and dark lakes and Hux has to force himself to tear his eyes away - he's suddenly cold.

"Ben's going through his green period." Olga winks at Ben and Hux shifts, trying to ignore the twist in his gut.

"They're good," He says to Ben as much as himself. He busies himself taking another sip of his local craft brew which, admittedly, tastes like a sourer version of Bud Light.

"I keep telling him to paint something cool for me." Olga gestures helplessly. "Something I can hang in the living room. I will pay you." She says sternly to Ben before turning back to Hux, "But all he's been doing are these forest landscapes."

Ben stiffens.

"And lakes. Sorry," She placates, "Lakeshores too. Lots of lakes and trees."

"And those don't go with your...aesthetic?" Hux smiles, wanting Ben to relax again.

"No, 'shiny and sleek' is more my thing." She grins. "Ben tells me I like midcentury modern, whatever the fuck that is."

"Like I haven't already explained it ten times," Ben retorts, still scanning the rapidly filling room. "You're just being difficult." He takes a sip. "As usual."

Olga gives him the finger.

Ben returns the gesture and goes back to watching the crowd. More and more people have crammed into the space, and it gets harder to hear Olga over the dull roar. It's getting hotter too, but Ben doesn't move away. He's almost unnaturally still at Hux's side; he notices Ben's white knuckle grip on his pint, still half full.

Olga doesn't seem to notice. She talks easily with Hux; they bounce around from various topics: terrible neighbors, NCAA men's basketball, the latest local political scandal. But mostly they talk about Ben, who is either uninterested in the topic or pretending to be.

"Oh my God," Olga laughs, wiping a tear from her eye. "And then, suitcase full of art supplies, six year-old Ben says, 'I'm going to New York, where my genius will be appreciated!'"

Hux giggles over the top of his second beer (craft, but not local - he's not rewarding mediocrity) and sees Ben looking at him from the corner of his eye.

"I'll never forgive my dad for telling you that story." Ben drawls. He relaxes for a few minutes, posture slightly slumped where he's shifted against Hux. Their shoulders are touching and Hux can _smell_ him; an indistinct, cheap men's shampoo and clean, warm skin.

Olga asks him which position she had applied to at Federation Banking and offers the name of a few friends that work there. He finds he doesn't have to repeat his story to her; apparently she knows where's he's from, where he currently works and even that he went to Purdue.

"Ben won't shut up about you." Her smile is accusatory, knowing.

"When did you say you were meeting the girls?" Ben interrupts, "It's 9:15." He drums his fingers on the table and takes another drink of his beer, shifting away from Hux.

 

When Hux gets home that night he flops straight into bed. He hugs the extra pillow to himself as he fidgets under the covers; his thoughts a soft, swollen loop of _Ben Ben Ben_ as he drifts off.

 _Ben!_ Hux jerks upright, still clutching the pillow to his chest. _Ben._ His Ben, the first Ben. He fists his hands in his hair and tries to calm his breathing.

Fuck.

He hadn't thought of him once the entire night. He presses his fingers against his eyelids until the pain is star-bright, piercing. He takes a deep breath.

It's ok. He was just having a good time, drinking a couple of beers. Forgetting, even momentarily, about the other Ben doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything.

 

  
Sunday has Hux making the four hour round trip to visit his mother. She mostly talks about his brother over their routine Applebee's lunch; apparently he's renovating their basement before he's deployed again in a few months.

"But, anyways," She grabs a fry from his plate and points it at him, "How's the job search going?" She pops the fry in her mouth. She had insisted she didn't want any with her order, but of course she's already eaten half of his.

He tells her about his phone interview on Tuesday, how if that goes well he should have an in-person one after that.

He doesn't tell her he's afraid it's less money than he's currently making, which is nothing compared to Boston. Or that spending one night with Ben and Olga has made him realize he's not made a single friend in his two years back. How the full force of his loneliness is like a sleeping limb; a hollow numbness, then a thousand stinging pinpricks.

 

  
On Saturday they're driving back to the coffeehouse from their run, Hux feeling guilty about the sweat he's leaving on Ben's upholstery, when his phone buzzes. It's several pictures from his sister-in-law. It looks like his nieces are trying on Halloween costumes in Target.

 _"Too cute!"_ He sends, and actually believes it.

_"This was approx 5 sec before there was a meltdown because they both wanted to be Elsa. I told them everyone can be Elsa all is fine. Oh no. They tell me: There can be only one...."_

_"Dual?"_ He replies, only half joking.

_"No, so I said ' nobody can be Elsa then.' And then cryiiiiiiiing."_

"Oh shit," Hux says aloud.

"Everything ok?" Ben asks as they pull into the coffeehouse parking lot.

"Yeah, just some Halloween costume drama between my nieces."

"Oooh, fill me in!" Ben crows as he parks next to Hux's car. " I love drama."

He recounts the story to Ben, who leans as he's shown the photos. Hux struggles at first trying to find an angle where they are visible in the glaring late morning light. Ben reaches out with one massive hand and gently shifts the phone under Hux's grip, their fingers touching.

Another text from his sister-in-law pops up. Hux clears his throat and reads aloud to Ben. "So much crying, but then Ellie told Sofie 'you can be Elsa since you like her more' and then Sofie told Ellie 'no you can be her' and then they were hugging and now everyone is going to be Elsa. I have mom'd enough for the day. I need wine."

Ben tips his head back and laughs, his nose scrunched and eyes crinkled in a way that shoots through Hux, drags him under cold water. He had almost forgotten again, for a second there. About the other Ben.

He isn't sure what's worse: the fact that he has memories of another Ben, or the fact that those memories are becoming harder to grasp the more time he spends with this one.

 

 

  
During the week he receives another voicemail from Federation Banking. He ducks into the same empty side office and makes plans for his in-person interview the following Wednesday, the week before Halloween.

This time, he texts Ben right away, knowing he's in class and not expecting him to respond until he's done with work late that night.

He receives a text back 10 minutes later.

_"!!!!! FUCKIN CONGRATS!"_

Hux laughs quietly at the several lines of emojis that follow. Thumbs up, party hats, confetti, an entire row of pots of gold interspersed with four leaf clovers. A single heart followed by three beer steins.

 

 

That Saturday driving to the trail Ben asks a flurry of questions about his upcoming interview. Does he think this will be the last one before they decide? Is he nervous? Does he know if there's only one opening for this position, or several?

Ben's questions make his heart start to race. Fuck. Maybe he _should_ go over some more interview practice questions. He feels the beginnings of sweat at his temples. He tries to change to the subject.

"So, any big plans for tonight?" He asks, not really wanting to know if Ben has a date or not. Ben grimaces.

"Phasma's having a Halloween party." He says flatly.

"Oh, that sounds...fun." Hux ventures.

"It's a lot more of her college friends. A lot more people I haven't met." Ben gnaws on his lower lip. "So I'm guessing after a few hours of Phasma's "grown-up punch" it's going to devolve into 20 questions like it always does." He says bitterly, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel.

"Was Iraq scary?" Ben mocks, "How did you get that scar?" He turns into the trail parking lot. "Did you kill anyone?" His voice trembles as he wrenches the car into park. Hux pretends not to notice as Ben inhales roughly.

"That...sucks." He says lamely, hating himself.

Ben huffs out a laugh, his shoulders still tense. "Let's go North today, huh?"

 

Their run is quiet, subdued. The trees are brilliant in their autumn color, and Hux shivers as handfuls of leaves drift softly to the ground in front of them.

"They aren't all assholes, you know." Ben admits to him on the drive home. "Just civilians, you know?"

Hux opens his mouth to reply, but Ben cuts him off. "And don't say 'But I'm a civilian,' because you're not."

"Well, I am." Hux points out, unsure whether his need to be right or his instinct to tease Ben is what's driving him .

Ben looks umimpressed. "You know what I mean." They come to a slow halt at a stoplight.

"You can-" Hux starts before he even completes the thought, " - come over. Or something. If you don't want to be home."

"I don't want to intrude," Ben clears his throat, "Interrupt your plans. Or anything."

"Oh, I had a glamorous evening planned." Hux babbles. "Pizza with a fine $10 wine. A viewing of the cinematic masterpiece _Sleepy Hollow._ "

Ben laughs, "Sounds exclusive. Are you sure its open to the public?"

"Actually, it's invitation only." Hux bites his lip. "But I can get you in." He prays Ben hasn't noticed he's started sweating.

 

He spends the entire afternoon in a mild panic. He sweeps, swiffers, dusts and vacuums his apartment. He makes sure his bedsheets are clean, although he's 100% sure Ben will never see them. He agonizes over what to wear. A button-down shirt is too formal for having a friend over for pizza, but he doesn't want Ben to think he's a slob either. He finally settles on his green t-shirt he wore when he met Ben at the coffeehouse for the first time.

Ben arrives at 7:30 in shiny, clinging black sweatpants and a thin gray zip up. Hux feels overdressed in his own home and flushes with embarrassment.

Ben lifts up a six-pack of beeer. "It's uh, pumpkin spice." He explains as Hux ushers him in. "I thought it appropriate."

They decide on a pizza place and Hux makes the order while Ben busies himself with opening their beers and putting the rest of the six pack in the fridge.

"Cheers." Ben says and clicks their bottles together. Hux takes a sip and tries to keep his face neutral.

"This is possibly - " Ben says slowly, taking another sip, "the worst beer I have ever had."

"I've had worse." Hux offers, taking another drink and immediately regretting it. "How do you feel about bourbon?" He asks as he pours his beer down the drain.

  
Hux is surprised how well the evening progresses. The pizza is delivered and they settle on the couch, the ice clinking loudly in their glasses as they set them on the coffee table. They talk throughout the movie. Hux feels powerful when his commentary makes Ben laugh, but that could also be the bourbon.

When Ben comes back from using the restroom he sits down slightly closer than he had before.  
Not close enough to be inappropriate, but closer than Hux had assumed he would. Ben sits back and sighs, legs falling open slightly. Ben's thigh is maybe an inch from his own. Hux swallows. There's no indication that Ben is interested in anything besides friendship. They watch Johnny Depp traipse about in a world consumed by fog.

Ben shifts again, sinking even lower into the couch and spreading his legs further. Ben's shoulder is so close he can feel the kiss of fabric from his shirt. Ben abandoned the thin jacket long ago, and Hux tries not to stare at Ben's chest; thinking that just below the thin layer of fabric is skin and muscle and _heat_. He looks instead to where their legs are now touching, from mid-thigh to knee. Hux lets out a shaky exhale.

"Thanks, again." Ben is still facing the television, face awash in pale blue light. "For letting me hide out here."

"You're welcome any time." Hux says automatically, awed by Ben's profile. His hair has grown out a bit since they first met and it looks good on him. He's on Ben's scarred side, and he's seized with the urge to kiss where it trails dangerously close to his eye.

Ben turns and his dark eyes lock on him. Hux freezes, feeling trapped by the gaze of a predator. Fuck. He's been caught staring. His heart starts to jackhammer in his chest. _Fuck_.

Ben bites his lip and Hux's brain overloads. He only feels a blank, white static as Ben stares at his mouth, shifts closer and slowly, slowly brushes his lips against Hux's.

He barely process Ben's soft lips and the stinging scent of bourbon on his breath before Ben starts to pull away. Hux's body jerks, an aborted movement; his hindbrain screaming _'don't go, stay here, stay close'_.

"Uh," Is all Hux can manage. Ben seems to snap back into himself.

"I'm sorry." Ben says stiffly, pulling even further away. "I can leave. I'm sorry." He pulls himself upright and springs from the couch. "I'm sorry." He repeats and he takes a step forward towards the kitchen, towards the _door_ and Hux is lurching forward before he can even comprehend it. He stares at where his fingers are gripping Ben's wrist. Ben halts, staring down at their hands.

"Don't leave." Hux hears himself say. Ben's face is red, Hux notices, and he's biting his lip hard enough to bleed.

"Well," Ben starts, "I have plans." He clears his throat. "To die of embarrassment."

Hux rises on unsteady legs, Ben's wrist still in his grip. The world around him seems fuzzy, unsteady; but Ben is stark and solid in front of him. He keeps squeezing Ben's wrist as he slowly, shyly, leans in and presses a soft kiss to Ben's full, trembling mouth.

Ben inhales sharply and Hux pulls away. He's not brave enough to take a step back, to look at Ben's full face. He moves instead to press soft, slow kisses from Ben's jaw and down his neck. He tries to memorize the smell of him, this close. The way Ben's throat works beneath his mouth.

A large hand, hot and heavy comes to his shoulder and then at the back of his neck, urging him closer. He feels a sharp pulse of arousal and boldly presses himself against Ben. He shudders when Ben shifts and his half hard cock is _there_ , pressing against Hux's hip; the thin sweatpants doing nothing to contain him.

Ben's width feels twice his, like Hux could press himself close enough to crawl inside him. Like nothing could ever be big enough to get him when Ben's arms were around him, keeping him safe.

"Hux" Ben's voice is hoarse.

"Do you want to go to the bedroom?" Hux murmurs against his neck, still fearful that looking at Ben will make him disappear.

Ben's shaky _yes_ pushes another wave of arousal through him and he's uncomfortable and straining in his jeans as he leads Ben through the dark to his bedroom.

As they undress Ben is illuminated by the dirty yellow streetlights that filter in through the blinds. Hux can't help but think Ben looks like something holy, something divine. He wants to fall to his knees and worship him. It keeps his mind off his own less than impressive physique, and when Ben slowly, shyly pulls down his briefs Hux feels delirious. Ben is hard and thick and _perfect_ and he reconsiders falling to his knees right there.

Instead Ben steps forward and kisses him again. He wraps his hands around Hux's waist and squeezes, his perfect cock digging into Hux's soft belly.

Ben murmurs that he hasn't done this a lot. With guys, you know?

Hux feels his eyes roll back into his head as a spike of possessive lust shoots through him; he tries to control his breathing as he tells Ben to lay down on the bed.

Hux pulls his comforter aside as Ben settles between the sheets and shoots him a nervous grin.

"You're so hot." Hux blurts, unable to help himself.

"You're obviously drunk." Ben laughs and brackets his hands around Hux's waist as he staddles him.

"I'm really not," Hux says, leaning down to kiss him again. He shifts and rubs their cocks together, slowly, carefully as he continues to kiss Ben's mouth, his neck. He bites softly at an ear and Ben groans and bucks, almost unseating him. Hux shifts over Ben, knees on either side of his hips and balancing on one hand while he grips their cocks together with the other.

"This okay?" He whispers, mouthing just below Ben's ear.

"Yes, fuck." Ben grits out, his hands an ironclad grip on his middle.

Hux settles on biting and sucking at Ben's neck while he jerks them together. The backs of his knees are sweating, his thighs trembling from the position and for trying to last, trying to make it good for Ben.

Ben's slick with sweat beneath him, panting and groaning and murmuring how good it feels, how good _Hux_ feels. Hux pulls back from Ben's neck to look down between them, where they are still held together, fucking his grip.

Ben goes first, choking Hux's name and spasming sharply beneath him; come spilling thick and hot onto his own chest, pooling in his belly and coating Hux's hand. Ben's still catching his breath as Hux keeps stroking himself, mesmerized by the vision of Ben wild-eyed and covered in come beneath him.

"Can I?" He asks, certain he'll die if he can't.

"Do it." Ben commands quietly, and Hux obeys. He doubles over, wracked in almost painful spasms and he forces himself to keep his eyes open, watches himself come onto Ben's perfect chest, his pretty pink nipples.

 

The sound of chimes has Hux jolting awake, fumbling for his phone. He curses and squints in the gray dawn before he realizes it's not _his_ phone that's going off.

Ben groans and shoves himself off the bed, still clad only in his briefs. Hux's shocked to still find him here, although he can't say why.

He stares at the shifting muscles of Ben's back; dotted with moles and aching to press a kiss to each one.

"Sorry about that." Ben croaks, and shuffles back under the covers. He suddenly stiffens, "But I can leave now, if you want -"

"It's 7:00 in the morning." Hux interrupts, shifting back down into the bed. He lays on his side facing Ben, who in turn relaxes. "Do you normally get up that early on a Sunday?"

"Yeah," Ben yawns, "I get a lot of school shit done on the weekends." He wriggles closer to Hux. "But I don't have a lot of stuff to do. This weekend." He moves his leg until its between Hux's.

Hux shifts and brackets Ben's muscular thigh with his own, clamping down on Ben's molten heat.

"Shit." Ben jerks, "You're feet are like ice." He moves to pull away, but Hux only wraps his legs tighter around him.

"Warm me up then," He taunts.

"Oh," Ben wags his eyebrows, "I'll warm you up."

Hux rolls his eyes but can't contain his yelp when Ben drags him closer. He's on his side, face hidden in Ben's shoulder; enclosed in Ben's heat.

"Hey," Ben says softly, "Have I mentioned how, uh, lucky I am? To have crashed into a lake and almost drowned?" He kisses Hux's temple, his forehead, his eyebrow.

"It is weird, actually." Hux starts, struggling to keep his eyes open. "That we met like that." There's something important he's forgetting, something about a forest-

"Yeah, totally." Ben stifles a yawn against Hux's forehead. "When we get up I'll make you breakfast." Ben presses another kiss to his eyebrow. Hux closes his eyes.

When he wakes up, Ben will be there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before starting this it had been 5 years since I had written anything. This story definitely isn't perfect, but I really appreciate everyone who read/left kudos/subscribed/commented! It was the encouragement I needed to keep trudging along and not give up. Once again, thank you!


End file.
